Under Suspicion
by AgnesDei
Summary: For Ali, what begins as a simple interview with Detective Hoffman suddenly becomes something much more twisted. Oneshot, rated M with good reason.


**A/N: This was written in response to a request, and I was proud to be asked and even more proud to honour it. Take pleasure in it, my dear.**

* * *

><p>She'd been waiting for almost half an hour.<p>

Ali tapped her fingernails on the cold surface of the table for a second in a short and arrhythmic tattoo, then found that this sound, small though it was, was still far too loud in the silken silence of the interview room, and stopped at once. She realised she was also biting gently at the corner of her lip, but this she seemed powerless to prevent.

She had been shown every courtesy so far, she wouldn't deny, and the uniformed officer who'd escorted her through had brought her a cup of water from the cooler with a warm and apologetic smile, promising that someone from Homicide would be with her as soon as possible. Even so, Ali was beginning to suspect that she was being left alone to stew just a little. There was a two-way mirror on the far wall, and her gaze kept straying to this, as well as to the video camera on a tripod in the corner of the room. True, it didn't seem to be recording right now; the power light wasn't on, for a start, but what if –

The door clicked back, and her thoughts on this matter were derailed so quickly and effectively that it was almost painful, like a stitch in her brain. She jerked her gaze away from the camera, feeling guilty, as if she'd been caught in some deplorable act, and studied the detective who'd joined her. He turned away from the door, slipping one hand into his inside pocket for a second, the movement so swift and so slick that she almost didn't register it. He paused to straighten his cuffs once more and then smiled at Ali.

It would only be later that she would recall what had unsettled her about this smile. It was perfectly pleasant and professional, but it didn't reach his eyes. Didn't even taint them. His lips curved amiably while his gaze picked her over like fresh meat.

"Ms. Bamber?" he asked – a redundant question – and set a file of papers down on the table. "Thank you for coming in. I'm Detective Sergeant Mark Hoffman. Sorry to have kept you waiting so long." Another smile, with another falsehood behind it, but this one was much more fleeting. Hoffman stepped over to the camera now and pressed a button on the side, and now the light flickered on. "I'll be taping this interview, if that's okay?"

"That's not a problem," said Ali, feeling her throat drying a little even as she spoke, and she watched the detective with trepidation as he seated himself on the far side of the table and laced his fingers together on the as-yet unopened folder in front of him.

"I'll get straight to the point," he said, abruptly, and now those hooded blue eyes shaded from cool to cold along with his tone of voice, "I need to ask you a few questions about your ex-husband. Starting with where he is."

Ali's lip trembled for a second; she was totally blind-sided by this query and seemed, for a time, to have been deserted by the power of speech. She wrestled with her composure for a handful of uncomfortable and undignified seconds, and then raised her chin a little.

"I've already spoken to the FBI," she said. There was a scrap of defiance in her words but, as slight as this was, it still appeared to provoke a tiny reaction. "I'll tell you exactly what I told them. I don't know where Lawrence is. He left me. You think I'd keep that kind of information back?"

Hoffman laughed, unexpectedly; the sound was short, and soft, and scornful.

"People lie to the cops all the time," he said, and that humour was gone as swiftly as it had arrived. "Why should _you_ be any different?" The detective stood up again, pushing his palms against the table as he rose to his feet, and now it occurred to Ali just how threatening a figure he cut, being both tall and heavy set, and very broad in the shoulders and chest. Set against this, the holstered pistol at his hip seemed to be a very minor detail.

All of this passed across her mind in a second, but a second was all it took; Hoffman was already moving, circling around behind her chair, looking down at her as he did so with his head to one side at an angle that was both curious and deeply troubling.

"Detective, I'm not –" she began, but even if she'd known how to continue this desperate denial, it was cut off as Hoffman placed his hands on her shoulders. Contrary to her expectations, however, that touch was eerily gentle, and Ali stiffened as his fingers squeezed her flesh through the fine fabric of her shirt. That idle kneading continued for a few seconds more, and then he was bending down, bringing his mouth right alongside her ear.

"I think you are," he chided her, and though she couldn't and, in fact, didn't dare turn her head so much as a fraction of an inch, she could nevertheless _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

Ali reacted, twisting out of his grasp. She expected him to try to keep her in place, so it was with a soft, hissing gasp of relief that she felt his hands slip from her shoulders as she leapt to her feet and crossed to the door, pulling at the handle. She was just grateful to be away from the detective's touch, and her mind was wholly preoccupied with this, so it was a few seconds before she realised that it was locked – and, with this understanding, Ali's gut twisted, and she was seized with the urge to panic. She fought it down, however, and turned over her shoulder.

"Let me out, please," she said, keeping her voice steady, which took a tremendous feat of effort, and meeting Hoffman's gaze, which took even more.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said. He'd sat down to watch her, chair tipped back against the wall a little, and he looked perfectly calm and even a trifle smug, apparently confident that he had Ali exactly where he wanted her. The problem was, she said to herself, that he was quite right about that.

"What if I scream?" she asked, with the beginnings of an apprehensive quaver creeping into her tone.

The detective flicked an idle hand through the air. "Go right ahead," he said, adopting the faintest of scornful sneers. "The room's soundproofed. Nobody's gonna hear you but me, and I've gotta say," he went on, cocking his head at her, his eyes sparkling coldly, "I think I'd _like_ to hear you scream..."

Ali backed against the door, her breath quickening along with her heart, and she shook her head slightly. Her last vestige of conscious thought told her that this gesture was of no use whatsoever, but it was pure reflex, and she was now operating solely on animal instinct.

"Come here," said Hoffman, still not moving a muscle, though his eyes flickered with fire for a second as she shook her head again, this time more insistently. "I won't tell you twice," he said in response, his voice dropping to a low growl. "If I have to come over there and fetch you, believe me, you're gonna regret it."

This sounded less like a threat than it was a simple statement of fact, and Ali's fists clenched involuntarily at her sides as she gave in, hung her head and returned to the far side of the room. She was still gazing dully at the floor as the detective stood up and moved in front of her, and then she whimpered quietly as he seized her, lifted her with only the tiniest expenditure of effort and sat her on the table.

"Look at me," he rasped; Ali turned aside, but he closed firm fingers on her chin and drew her head back to front and centre.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, as bravely as she could. Hoffman had moved in even closer, and as she drew in a small, quivering breath, she caught his scent. He smelled perfectly clean, but there was a light sheen gathering in the hollow of his throat, and beneath this, she detected the faintest trace of something animal, _bestial, _even, and she shifted nervously.

"Everything," he said, hoarsely, and hooked a finger into the knot of his tie, dragging it off and tossing it aside without removing his gaze from hers. He moved his hands to the front of his shirt now, still staring into Ali's eyes, and unbuttoned it slowly and deliberately as a small, cruel smile gradually painted itself across his features. When he was done, he reached out and plunged his fingers into her hair, gripped the back of her neck until she yelped in pain, and then pulled her head down.

"Come on, Ali," he breathed. "Put that mouth of yours to some good use."

There was no option but to obey. Ali closed her eyes and licked at his warm flesh, tasting salt and musk and fresh sweat as his chest heaved beneath her attentions and then, acting on a barely acknowledged thought, she bit down. Not hard – she didn't dare draw his blood – but it was enough to raise a brief shudder from the detective, and his hand tightened on the back of her neck for a second before he yanked her head back once more and grinned at her.

"That's a good girl," he said, looking her over before turning his free hand to the front of her blouse and ripping it down from collar to waist in one rough tug, the buttons pattering to the floor. Ali found a fraction of a second to regret not wearing a bra; but it wasn't as if it would have made a difference to the end result. The cool air tingled on her exposed skin and her nipples were already stiffening slightly.

"Please don't," she whispered, looking away and instinctively trying to cover her breasts, but Hoffman laughed gently and then grabbed her wrists, squeezing hard and drawing her hands away so that he could study her at length as his breathing slowed and roughened.

"Nice," he said, at last. "You're very beautiful. Why be so shy?"

It was a taunt, and they both knew it. Ali's eyes stung with a weight of embarrassment that almost overpowered her terror, and the combination of both these razor-edged emotions threatened to suffocate her. So it was that she barely acknowledged Hoffman's change of direction until he drew her hand down and pressed it against his tented crotch.

Ali gasped, jumping a little, but his grip on her wrist was steel and she was unable to pull away. She flexed her fingers and felt his cock, already proud and straining against the fabric of his pants, swell a little further as a result. He groaned softly as she struggled once more, his eyelids flickering for a moment, and then he rubbed her palm up and down his shaft.

She didn't even stop to think about what she was doing; all she knew was that, in a moment of distraction, the detective had released her other hand, and now she struck out, landing an awkward slap on his cheek that drove his head aside. Ali felt a stab of satisfaction at this, but it lasted only as long as it took for the surprise to clear from his eyes, and then he snarled at her and forced her down onto the table, pinning her with his weight and baring his teeth as she squirmed beneath him.

"You wanna fight?" he panted, restraining her with difficulty; fury had overtaken fear and she was thrashing like an eel. "Fine," he told her, grinning at her struggles, "I'll give you something to fight about..." Hoffman tailed off into a harsh, barking laugh, and then reached down and thrust one hand up her skirt rudely, forcing her thighs apart with insulting ease and moving further still. Ali bit back a shriek as he made contact, but he merely snorted and then he was sliding two fingers inside her; she froze as he explored her soft, moist folds and then pushed deeper still as her juices began to flow.

_Stop_, she thought, but when she finally drew enough breath to speak, this word was not what reached her lips. Instead, she sighed, and that sigh became a soft moan along the way. Ali was half delirious by now, and though she felt some perfunctory shame at responding to Hoffman's brutal advances, that emotion suddenly seemed distant and disconnected, hardly having anything to do with her at all. She writhed, her head falling helplessly to one side, and her cries became more insistent as he pressed his thumb to her clit and stroked it gently but persistently.

"Are you enjoying this?" he asked, smoothly. Another tease; her soft whimpers were evidence enough of her growing arousal. Hoffman was not so easily deterred from his path, however. "Say it," he insisted, and then stilled his hand at once, causing her to whine in frustrated desire. "You want more? All you have to do is ask, Ali."

"I..." She bit her lip, her eyes fluttering open once more. The detective was watching her with carefully constructed amusement as she struggled with her tongue. "Oh, God. I want more," she said, quietly. "Please don't stop."

Hoffman let out a gentle chuckle and continued his ministrations, picking up his pace a little now as Ali shivered beneath him, her muscles twisting and then tensing, all self-control falling by the wayside. She was lost, the world was lost, her vision clouded over and she arched her back, whispering pleas and entreaties, conscious now of nothing but the urgent rhythm of his intruding fingers and the swelling pleasure that racked her body. Finally, rendered utterly helpless and almost insane, she let loose a broken shriek and plunged into a deep climax.

When Ali finally subsided, her tremors passing by degrees and her breathing slowing just as gradually, she realised that Hoffman had been biting at her like an animal as she'd hit her peak, and her creamy breasts were marked with bright red bruises. He released her nipple from between his teeth and raised his head a little, and then withdrew his soaking wet fingers from her and brought his hand up to her lips. She opened her mouth and licked at her own fluids without prompting, suckling on Hoffman's fingers as he stroked her hair before twining it in his fist.

"That's right," he said, encouragingly, his voice barely more than a black velvet whisper. "No, no," he told her, as she started to close her eyes. "You keep looking at me while you do that, Ali, you hear me?"

She obeyed, staring into his eyes. His pupils were so dilated that all she could see were fine rings of soft blue-grey around those threatening black pools, and Ali drew a sharp breath.

Against expectation, in the next second he'd drawn back, removing his weight from her and untangling his hand from her hair. He had pulled out a few golden strands, and he studied these with some interest before plucking them from between his fingers with an air of idle preoccupation. Finally, he grinned and sat down in the chair, eyeing her levelly.

Ali struggled up and slipped down from the table, trying to adjust her clothing and recover her senses at the same time, but as she did so, Hoffman shook his head gently.

"Get on your knees," he said. His voice was smooth and low, but there was a hint of something else beneath it; it said, very clearly, that this was not a request and that refusal would be extremely unwise. She sighed painfully and knelt before him, and he smiled down at her approvingly.

"What do you want?" he asked. Ali frowned, puzzled and uncertain. What kind of game was he playing now, she wondered. She chewed at her lip a little and averted her gaze for a second, blushing, but as she did so, Hoffman leaned forward and took her head between his hands, his grip quite implacable, and turned her to him once more.

"You know what I want to hear," he said, very softly. "So say it."

She had known all along, and with a deep bolt of shame Ali admitted to herself that she wanted it too, but...to say such things aloud? She swallowed heavily as the flush on her cheek deepened and she lowered her gaze. As she spoke, she felt further wetness trickling down the soft curve of her inner thigh.

"I want to suck your cock," she whispered, her eyes still downcast and her lip trembling. She heard Hoffman loose a soft noise, halfway between a laugh and a grunt of satisfaction, and then he removed his hold on her head and sat back again.

"I'm all yours," he said, and this time his tone was dripping with mockery. Ali was by now numbed to the crucifying humiliation of it all, however, and simply unzipped his pants, gliding her cool fingers into his boxers and closing them on his erection as he gasped aloud.

"What are you waiting for?" he growled, as she hesitated a little. "Do it."

Ali had no more choice, and she lowered her head and closed her lips around the swollen head of Hoffman's cock, playing her tongue over his flesh as she took him deeper into her mouth. He groaned and stiffened, thrusting his hips up slightly and placing one hand on the back of her neck, urging her down further still.

"Take it all, slut," he hissed, clamping his fingers around her neck and squeezing until she saw stars. The pain galvanized her and she reached up, digging her nails into his wrist until he relaxed his brutal grasp, and then she resumed her attentions, gliding her mouth up and down his shaft, her eyes closed, concentrating on her work and picking up her pace as she ran one hand along his thigh and felt his muscles tense beneath her touch.

After a few seconds more of this treatment, however, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head up, breathing harshly, and she saw patches of high, vivid colour blooming on his cheeks.

"Fuck me," panted Hoffman, regaining a little of his composure, although his fist remained tangled in her hair, and he now tightened that grip just a little for emphasis. When Ali failed to respond – she was still mired in both desire and confusion, licking her lips to savour the warm, sweet taste of his cock – he shook her.

"You heard me," he said, hoarsely, and now his gaze was a blend of frustration and growing anger. Ali stumbled to her feet as he released her hair, and moved closer, straddling him and sinking down onto his cock, throwing back her head as she did so, moaning softly. Hoffman moved his hands to her breasts as she began to ride him, squeezing her soft flesh and closing his fingers on her aching nipples, pinching and twisting them until she whimpered.

"You like that?" he asked.

"Yes..." she breathed.

"You want me to stop?"

"No," she said, pleading.

"Then fuck me harder," he ordered her.

She complied, gritting her teeth and clutching his shoulders, sinking her nails into him and feeling him shudder from the pain of this as she clawed fresh blood from his hot, sweat-soaked skin and speeded her movements. The detective was quivering beneath her, moments from orgasm, every muscle locked tight and his fingers gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

The room was silent but for the slap of flesh on flesh and the sound of their mingled gasps. Ali cried out just once, like a wounded bird, and felt Hoffman convulse, snarling roughly as he climaxed, driving up into her and clawing the smooth skin of her back as he did so. She squirmed as she felt his semen flooding her, pouring into her and overflowing in a slow, sticky trickle.

Gradually, unwinding as if an inch at a time, Hoffman descended from his peak and subsided, releasing his hold on her and stroking her softly now, his touch tender and solicitous. Ali sighed softly, then hooked one arm around his neck and leaned in, kissing him deeply, twining her tongue with his and relishing the heat of his mouth. When she finally drew back, she laid her fingertips on his flushed cheek and grinned wearily.

"How's that for a game of 'Good Cop, Bad Cop'?" he asked, pleasantly, through an equally exhausted smile.

"I don't remember any Good Cop," she teased him, coyly.

"Yeah, well," he said. "Good cops don't do this sort of thing, do they?" He laughed a little, and then leaned forward and licked a bead of sweat from her neck, making her tingle. At last, and with reluctance, Ali dismounted and moved away, rearranging herself and trying to subdue the heated blush on her skin by fanning herself a little. After a few seconds, she remembered something and looked down at her torn shirt, and then over at the detective.

"By the way," she chided him, although she was still smiling, "next time, tear your own clothes, all right? This is silk."

He stood up, readjusting his own clothing, and then ran an affectionate hand through her hair.

"Sorry, I got carried away," he said, with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I'll buy you a new one, I promise."

"You'd better, mister," Ali told him with mock severity, and then slipped her hand into his inside pocket, extracting the key with a coquettish little wink and turning away. She circled the table and pressed a switch on the video camera to stop the recording, then removed the tape and looked at it thoughtfully for a second before eyeing the detective.

"Don't be late home," she said, sweetly, twirling it between her fingers to make her point perfectly clear. Hoffman's features creased with pleasure as he got the message.

"Round two?" he asked.

"Of course," she told him, and then, with a blown kiss, she unlocked the door and left the room, smiling to herself.


End file.
